


Making the Cut

by testosterone_tea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Female John, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Genderfluid Sherlock, Inexperienced Sherlock, Love Confessions, Other, Pining Sherlock, Unilock, afab Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/testosterone_tea/pseuds/testosterone_tea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is genderfluid, but hasn't told anybody yet, afraid that they wouldn't be accepted. However, feelings of dysphoria make it harder and harder to hide. One day things get slightly out of hand... will John accept Sherlock the way they really are? AFAB Genderfluid Sherlock and Fem!John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second giveaway winner's prize for [una-gatita-curiosa!](http://una-gatita-curiosa.tumblr.com/) I hope you all enjoy my fic! Second half will be up tomorrow (it's already written, so don't worry).
> 
> This is my first time writing AFAB Sherlock and Fem!John, so I hope you agree with my characterizations of them. I wanted to take into account that they were both socialized in a different way than male Sherlock and John would have been.

Sherlock's mother always complimented their hair, because it was long and beautiful, and it flowed down their back in rippling curls.

"I don't see how you could ever bear to cut it," Mummy always said. "You must have gotten your father's hair. Just look at Mycroft and I, our hair is so thin and wispy!"

"Leave me out of this, Mother," Mycroft said, patting his hair down over his high forehead, where it was already starting to thin.

"But lucky Sherlock," Mummy used to say. "Her hair is so lovely. She'll be the envy of all the girls! And all the boys will chase her."

Sherlock had two problems with that.

First of all, Sherlock wasn't a girl. They glared at their reflection in the bathroom mirror between classes, fussing with their hair. They couldn't stand it. It was so long, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to cut it off. It wasn't just that it was terribly annoying to take care of, but something deep inside them couldn't stand to have long hair. It didn't _belong_ to them, somehow.

But they never dared to cut it, because what would Mummy say?

Secondly, Sherlock didn't like boys and never had. They had struggled to try and find any delight in the male form and in their rough boyish personalities, but they never did find them appealing in the least. On the other hand... Sherlock loved girls. They loved their faces, and their hair, and the way they moved, the way they always smelled so nice. And Sherlock liked one girl in particular, although they were having trouble telling the girl in question.

John Watson was the captain of the university girl's rugby team, was training to be a doctor, and wanted to join the army. And Sherlock, in spite of their admiration of John's stellar qualities, they couldn't help but be envious at the same time.

Because John seemed like everything they wanted to be, and Sherlock didn't understand how she did it.

John was called by a boy's name. Sherlock knew for a fact that John was a bit touchy over this subject, because her father had wanted boys and instead had ended up with two girls. So Johanna and Harriet Watson were instead nicknamed John and Harry, and so it had been for their entire lives. Sherlock understood, John had always been pressured into masculine things by her father, and that didn't make her any less a woman. Lots of people said John was "mannish" and more often than not, John said, "Man this!" and punched them in the nose.

But how Sherlock wanted that, to be sometimes mistaken for a man, to have people treat her like one, and above all, she wished she had John's short hair. John had a pixie cut, and Sherlock knew it was a girls' short haircut, but what Sherlock wouldn't give for short hair!

They hated it. Every single time they went in to get a trim, Sherlock felt the overwhelming urge to just tell them to cut it all off, to give them a buzz cut even, just to get rid of it all. The hair felt like shackles, tying them to femininity.

The thing was, they wouldn't mind the long hair so much if people didn't think that long hair automatically signalled being female. In fact, sometimes they liked the long hair, and liked wearing cute feminine clothing. But the other half of the time, Sherlock could hardly stand it.

Other students at the university thought Sherlock was anti-social.

It was true, Sherlock did avoid a lot of people, and more often than not, could be found either in the lab running an experiment or in the university dorms reading research papers. Sherlock didn't much like people, but they didn't know how much of it was actual dislike of people, and how much it was that in their mind, every single person that passed them on the street looked at them and automatically thought "girl."

Sherlock sighed and looked at their reflection in the steel surface of one of the lab benches. They looked like a girl, everything about them screamed it to the world, and Sherlock was too scared to try and change that perception. People already thought they were a freak, and this would just convince everyone even more.

"Sherlock, there you are. I brought you a coffee!" 

Sherlock turned with a small upturn of their mouth.

"John," they murmured softly, looking up from where they were pipetting chemicals.

"I knew I'd find you here," John said, eyes fond.

"You smell like wet grass," Sherlock said.

John had the rugby pitch all over her, grass stains on her knees, a bruise on her upper thigh, a baggy rugby jersey, and dewy hair from where she had been tackled to the ground.

Sherlock loved her so much that for a second, she couldn't breathe.

"Here, take a break and have coffee with me," John said, leaning over Sherlock's shoulders and resting her crossed arms over them.

John's weight was warm against their back, and Sherlock closed their eyes.

"Fine," they said, and put the pipette down. "You know, you weren't supposed to bring food in the lab. Aren't you the one always going on about rules needing to be followed?"

"You won't tell, right?" John giggled as they exited the lab.

There was a row of square-shaped seats to sit on and a little shelf outside the lab for scientists to put their food and beverages on. John sat on one of the seats, and Sherlock joined her, leaning back against the wall.

"Your shoulders are going to be killing you tonight," John said cheerfully. "How long have you been in the lab, already? At least eight hours, I'd say."

"Nine," Sherlock said, sighing. "And your shoulder is going to be killing you later, the one you used to tackle the big one with the spots."

"Don't be mean to Millie," John scolded them. "She's a nice girl. And one hell of a flanker."

"She's sleeping with the short skinny one's boyfriend," Sherlock muttered.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," John said cheerfully. "Poor Di, she hasn't had much luck, always chooses scoundrels."

"At least hers are interesting," Sherlock said.

"Don't start that up again," John said. "Just because I like nice, romantic guys doesn't mean that they're boring."

"They are though," Sherlock muttered rebelliously, pouting. "You like adventure more than safety, I keep telling you."

"I'm not going after a bad boy if that's what you're thinking," John snorted. "As if that ever ends well."

That hadn't been what Sherlock had been thinking at all, but since Sherlock was never going to mention to straight-as-an-arrow John Watson that they had feelings for her, John would never know.

"What about you, Sherlock, any prospects? How about that lad who's researching with Dr. Binnema?" John asked, nudging their shoulder with hers.

"Lads," Sherlock said, mouth thinning. "Not really my area."

"I see," John said. "What about that lab tech? She's nice."

Sherlock just shrugged and sipped their coffee. It was perfect, as always. John knew just what they liked.

"Let's go home," Sherlock said, going back in to clean up their bench.

As they were walking back to the dorms, John said, "You know, your creepy brother keeps texting me. If it was any other creepy brother, I would mean things like dick pics and rude comments, but not your brother."

"Lucky you," Sherlock replied. "What kind of texts?"

"No idea, weird things," John said, digging out her phone. "Look, like this."

_Sherlock is not what they appear. MH_

"Ignore it," Sherlock said, heart leaping in alarm.

They had always suspected that Mycroft knew more than he was letting on. Sherlock hadn't told anyone anything about their gender identity problems, not about their pronouns, not about the dysphoria, not about anything. But their brother was harder to fool than most people, because he wasn't looking for "normal" things, and Sherlock's genderfluidity wasn't normal at all.

Mycroft had even used "they" like Sherlock did in their own mind. John hadn't appeared to even notice this variation, but Sherlock had picked up on it immediately.

"He can keep his fat nose out of my business," Sherlock muttered in annoyance.

"Come on, let's go," John said. "I want to make us some dinner, and then we can trade back massages. Sound good to you?"

"Yeah, of course," Sherlock said.

John grabbed her hand and picked up the pace, although her shorter legs meant that Sherlock could keep up with her easily. Sherlock stared down at their joined hands and grimaced slightly. John was always doing things like that, casually touching them or hugging them, or even holding hands, because "girls" were allowed to get away with it.

While John was making them both dinner by mixing in some frozen vegetables with instant ramen noodles, Sherlock received a text from Mycroft. As tempted as they were to ignore it, Sherlock knew that Mycroft would just pester them, and the continuous texts might draw John's attention.

Sherlock picked up their mobile and the screen lit up.

_I'm not as unobservant as everyone else. I know you're not as you seem on the surface. MH_

Sherlock resisted the urge to toss their mobile across the room and took a deep breath.

_Stay out of it, Mycroft. It's none of your business. SH_

Of course the one person to see through their feminine facade was also the least supportive and understanding person on the planet. How had Mycroft even figured it out? Mycroft had just started some dull government job. Maybe they were using it to spy on them?

Sherlock made a mental note to glare at the next CCTV camera they saw. 

The mobile chimed again, but this time, Sherlock turned it off rather than endure more of Mycroft's annoyingly snide and patronizing remarks. 

"Come on Sherlock, time to eat," John demanded, putting two bowls on the table.

Sherlock was so lucky they'd managed to get John for a roommate. At the beginning, Sherlock had never imagined they'd be able to find a roommate that they could stand living with, but John was a minor miracle in many ways. But she wasn't anyone else's miracle, just Sherlock's, a short girl who dressed in the world's ugliest jumpers.

As soon as they were done, John threw herself facedown on the living room floor.

"Come on, Sherlock," she said. "Straighten me out."

"As if you could get any more straight," Sherlock said, but complied, awkwardly straddling John's limp form, which was warm between her thighs.

Sherlock bit back a whine at their proximity and concentrated on the technique.

Sherlock was surprisingly good at giving massages considering that they had never been given a chance to practice on anyone else before John. Sherlock's back massages were exclusive. Pressing down on either side of John's spine between her shoulderblades resulted in several loud pops.

"That's the stuff," John said. "Now do my shoulder."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, rolling their eyes.

John's left shoulder was a mass of knots, both from playing rugby and university study habits such as bending over work while studying and carrying massive textbooks around. Each time Sherlock pushed their thumbs into a knot, John would groan loudly.

If only the position and the noises weren't so suggestive of sexual activity. Sherlock felt their cheeks heat up and was thankful that John was facedown on the floor and couldn't see their embarrassment. Sherlock managed to rub out a few more knots before John sat up, rotating her shoulder and making it crack loudly.

"We'll be old before you know it," John said cheerfully. "Your turn. Don't think I don't realize how terrible your back probably is from spending nine hours hunched over your lab bench."

When possible, Sherlock tried to avoid being on the receiving end of massages, mostly because it was much harder to hide unfortunate reactions. However, John wouldn't always take no for an answer when it came to Sherlock's health.

Reluctantly, Sherlock lay on their stomach on the floor and hid their face in their arms.

"Sherlock, quit hunching your shoulders," John said, and repositioned them.

Sherlock hoped that John would be too busy massaging to notice how red Sherlock's face had gotten at having John on top of them. They were so worried over that issue that they didn't even notice John had started until they felt John suddenly put pressure on their back to release tension.

"How do you even manage to get yourself into this condition, Sherlock," John said. "I could have sworn this was one of your shoulderblades until I realized your actual shoulderblade was over here! Knots should not be so hard that they resemble bone!"

"It's not that – ouch!" Sherlock turned their head and glared.

"Stay still, Sherlock, I'm putting some knuckle into this," John said.

Sherlock huffed and let John get to work, trying to keep their breathing even. Eventually, their heart stopped beating so hard, and they began to feel drowsy and relaxed. They hardly noticed as John's fingers began massaging the back of their neck.

"You have such nice hair," John said.

Sherlock almost didn't notice the comment, but a light tug on the braid at the back of their head made them pay attention. Sherlock tensed. Normally, John's compliments made Sherlock swell with pride and contentment, but Sherlock's stomach felt like it had a cold lump in it when they realized what John had said.

"You never wear it down," John commented. "Doesn't it put a strain on your scalp to have it tied back so tight like this?"

"No," Sherlock said, her voice lacking inflection.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John's hands stopped their massage.

"Yes," Sherlock said, their mouth tightening unhappily.

"Right then," John said, patting their shoulder lightly. "That's done. You should get some sleep. Early class tomorrow, right?"

John got up and went to the bathroom to start her nighttime routine, but Sherlock stayed where they were on the floor on their stomach. John liked their hair. Sherlock knew it was unfair to be angry at John for complimenting their hair when Sherlock had never mentioned to John how much they absolutely hated having long hair. But there it was, just the same. They almost felt betrayed.

And Sherlock resented her, just the tiniest bit, for being yet another reason not to cut their hair.

***

It had been about a week since the hair comment, and Sherlock had been avoiding John. They'd tried to make it seem like an accident, but even John could tell when Sherlock wasn't being forthcoming about something. 

Sherlock looked around at the evidence and sighed. John was getting more and more agitated that Sherlock wasn't around, judging by the empty jars of marmite on the counter and the excessive number of beer bottles, both empties under the sink and full ones in the fridge. 

They really just needed to stop being an idiot about this and go back to treating John like normally. John wasn't that observant. She couldn't have realized how Sherlock felt about the hair, as unobservant as she was. But Sherlock still felt like John should have known somehow, should have realized it.

Should have somehow made it better.

Sherlock snorted and rolled their eyes at their inner thoughts. They were expecting too much of John, who was just their roommate, after all. Even if she was exemplary. It wasn't as if Sherlock was John's girlfriend. John was straight, and Sherlock being non-binary wouldn't change the fact that John only saw Sherlock in a platonic light.

John was generally accepting of the strangest things, even Sherlock's oddities, but Sherlock still didn't know how she would react to Sherlock's gender identity.

The bottom line was, Sherlock was acting stupidly about this, and it had to stop before John figured it out.

They didn't want to go to the lab today. This morning was shaping up to be particularly bad on the dysphoria front. Sherlock could barely stand to look at their own reflection in the mirror, because it just screamed "girl! girl! girl!" at them mockingly. Luckily, Sherlock had small breasts, and a tight sports bra and thick sweater covered them up. But some days, Sherlock just felt like there was a huge, gaping hole inside them, and that they were missing vital parts of themself.

Those were the days that Sherlock could hardly bring themself to go outside, because people would look at them, everyone would look at them and see a woman. 

A crawling feeling of bodily loathing filled them, but Sherlock needed to finish up today's labwork. It was an essential part of their chemistry thesis, and they couldn't skip a day just because they had dysphoria. 

Feeling sick to their stomach with it, Sherlock dragged themself to the lab. Their dysphoria was almost overwhelming today, to the point that they couldn't even make deductions about people they saw while they were on their way. Sherlock just got a terrible feeling that everyone around them knew they were a freak and were actually staring at them and judging them.

They were too frazzled, and their scalp itched with it. Sherlock messed up two different PCR runs before they gave up. It just wasn't going to work today, of all days.

Sherlock didn't know what it was, maybe it was just that much closer to the edge than usual, but something catastrophic happened.

Their hair tie snapped.

Sherlock threw it across the room, thought better of it, retrieved it, soaked it in ethanol solution with their gloved hands shaking, and set it ablaze. It didn't burn for long, and in the meantime, Sherlock frantically searched for an alternate hair-tying implement.

Shouldn't have burned it. Over-reaction. Could have still used it.

There wasn't one. Their hair was everywhere, puffing out in tangly curls because the lab was strangely humid that day. No one else was in the lab to ask for a spare. Sherlock was desperate enough to ask someone for a spare at this point. Hands still shaking, they searched the area and came up with an improvised hair tie made out of a twisted up glove.

It didn't hold for more than a minute, and Sherlock had had enough.  
Without really thinking it through, adrenaline lending them energy, they dug through the nearest drawer and found a pair of scissors. They were lab scissors, all metal for sanitation purposes, and with a curved end. Not meant to be used to cut through anything thick. Sherlock marched down the hall to the bathroom, and before they could think about it, before they could reason it out and talk themself out of it, Sherlock grabbed a handful of their hair and snipped it off, close to their chin.

The severed bits of hair fell to the bathroom floor and stuck there in a wet clump.

Sherlock gritted their teeth and made another cut. And another, and another, frantic, hands trembling as they sheared away their long hair.

Panting, they stared at themself in the mirror. Their hair was a mess still, although it was shorter now. It was surprisingly light not to have all the hair weighing them down. But without the extra weight of hair, their curls had gone on a riot. Their hair was everywhere, sticking out and fluffing out around their head uncontrollably. Some of their hair was too short to even put in a tie because they'd miscalculated in their haste.

This was more terrible than even before. Cutting it had been a mistake. Now people would really stare at them, at this gigantic mess of hair.

They cleaned up the bathroom as best they could in their panic, and all but ran back to the lab. No one was there still, but one of their fellow grad students had left a hoodie near the lab bench. Sherlock put it on, throwing the over-sized hood up over their head.

This was a disaster. They could only hope that once they got home, they'd be able to fix it.

***

They couldn't fix it.

They stared into the mirror in growing despair, because no matter how they tried to fix it, they only made it worse.

They had tried to even it out, first just by sight, looking at it like a sculpture of sorts. However, no matter what bit they cut off, all it did was make it uneven in a different way. Now, instead of only having a slightly uneven cut, it was uneven in every way possible, especially the back.

They had tried calculating it. They'd written their calculations out and checked them, tried to take into account how the curls would react, but that hadn't worked either. 

Their hair looked terrible.

To their horror, Sherlock felt tears of anger and helplessness welling up in their eyes and dashed them away with a frustrated hand. This was no time for crying, they had to figure out what to do about it. Panicking had lead to this situation, and panicking was not going to help them now.

But they couldn't help but think in anguish about how people would look at them now. Before all this, everyone had complimented their hair, even John. Their mother, strangers on the Tube, and every hair dresser they'd ever gone to, it was always, "Oh, you have such beautiful hair, I can see why you keep it long." Sherlock hated that, that they all saw what they wanted to see, and they'd come to all the wrong conclusions about why Sherlock kept their hair the way they did.

Sherlock really had not good explanation for why they had suddenly chopped off the majority of their hair. Most of if wasn't going to fit in a hair tie anymore, because the more they tried to even it out, the shorter and more lop-sided it got.

They gave up on fixing it themself for the moment, since they were only making it worse. They had to think of how to fix this – not just the hair, although that was the main priority – but how to explain to everyone else what they had done.

Sherlock was just trying to think of what to do to fix it when they heard the front door open.

John had come back. They'd almost forgotten about John, or had relegated her involvment to the back burner of their mind. 

Would John help, or would she laugh at them?

It took only a split second to jump up and close the door to their room, and to hide their head underneath a blanket, just in case.

"Sherlock, are you home already?" John called from the front door.

Sherlock heard John shuffling around, taking her shoes off and putting her stuff down. Even though they normally hated it when John went off on a boring date with a predictably normal guy, tonight it would be ideal if John would just go away.

John knocked on their door.

"Sherlock?" she asked. "Your shoes are here, and they're still wet from the rain, so I know you're here. I may not be as good at deducing things as you are, but I can still figure some things out."

"I might have changed shoes and gone back out," Sherlock said, and then clapped their hand over their mouth.

"I also knew you wouldn't be able to resist correcting my deductions," John said with a laugh. "What are you doing in there, Sherlock? Come out and have some dinner."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied through the door.

"What's going on? What are you doing locked in your room?" John asked. "You're normally at the lab till late, or working on your own experiments."

Trust John to be curious at all the wrong times.

"There's nothing wrong, just leave me alone," Sherlock said.

John came and stood right outside their door and rapped on it. "I know you hate hanging out in your room – who wouldn't, with it being as tiny as it is. Just come out, I promise I'll be quiet."

"Go away!" Sherlock repeated.

There was one good thing about being known as anti-social – it meant that no one thought it was out of the ordinary if you were rude, abrupt, or avoidant.

"Fine, I'm making dinner," John said. "You should eat some."

"Not hungry!" Sherlock said through the door.

"Fine!" John said. "I'll eat it all myself!"

John left their door, and soon Sherlock could hear her banging the pots and pans around in the kitchen, louder than usual. John made something quickly and didn't wait for Sherlock to come join her. Not that Sherlock was able to leave without John noticing. Their dorm room was a tiny thing, barely big enough for two people to live in, let alone sneak around in without the other noticing.

It was no good, Sherlock was stuck there for the time being.

John moved around the dorm outside, clinking dishes, turning on the kettle, sitting on the couch. Sherlock lay on the bed listening to her and waiting for John to go to bed. Sherlock still hadn't figured out what they were supposed to do about the hair situation. The future looked a bit bleak to them, and they could only hope that Mycroft with his mysterious powers of knowing things he shouldn't had not seen Sherlock's mad dash back to their room with a shorn head.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was outside the door again.

"Go away, John," Sherlock replied, a tired feeling rising in their chest. Being this anxious over an extended period was exhausting.

"Why is there hair in the sink?" John asked instead of going away.

"It's not important, John!" Sherlock said hastily. "Just leave it alone!"

"Will you come out of there?" John asked. "I hate yelling at you through the door."

"No!" Sherlock said.

"Sherlock..."

"I'm not coming out!" Sherlock said. 

"Is it because of the hair in the sink?" John asked.

"It's none of your business!" Sherlock spat, crossing their arms. "Leave me alone!"

John left again, and Sherlock sighed, lying back down on the bed. Just as Sherlock thought that they were alone, there was a muffled thump against their door.

"John?" they called in confusion. It was normally Sherlock that caused loud noises.

"I'm sitting against your door until you let me in," John said.

"I'm not letting you in!" Sherlock replied, putting their head under their blanket again.

Sherlock tried to ignore John, but John didn't leave. They could see the shadow under their door where John was sitting. After a while, Sherlock spoke up again.

"It can't be comfortable sitting there on the floor," they said. "You should just leave."

"I have a blanket, a pillow, and a book. I can certainly out-wait you, my easily-bored friend," John replied. "I won't give up so easily!"

On second thought, Sherlock shouldn't have implied that. John had stubborness problems.

"Why can't you just leave it alone, like I asked?" Sherlock asked.

There was a pause. "You've been avoiding me all this week."

"I... I haven't, I've just been busy!" Sherlock said defensively.

"Don't be daft, Sherlock, I can tell when someone's avoiding me," John said. "You haven't just been avoiding the flat, but you've been avoiding looking at me or talking to me. What's this all about, Sherlock?"

"It's nothing," Sherlock said miserably.

"It's not nothing," John said, more quietly. "I can tell that something has been bothering you. Something I said or did made you uncomfortable. What was it?"

"Nothing," Sherlock replied again, feeling a bit like an automaton, just repeating the same response.

"Was it the massage?" John asked. "I know you normally avoid them. If you really didn't want me to touch you, you could have just asked me not to."

"It's not that!" Sherlock said quickly, feeling their cheeks heating up.

They might have unfortunate physiological responses when John was touching them, but that didn't mean that Sherlock didn't like it, or that they wanted John to stop.

"You're sure?" John said. "I can stop touching you if you don't like it."

"I do like it!" Sherlock replied, and immediately wished they could take it back.

"You do?" John said. "I never got that impression. You're always tense or look like you'd rather be on the other side of the room whenever I touch you."

"I – I – I don't mind!" Sherlock stuttered. "That's not it at all, John."

"Then why do you always seem like you hate it?" John asked.

"I – " Sherlock got up off the bed and went to sit next to the door. They leaned against it and imagined that John was doing the same on the other side. "John..."

John made an inquiring sound.

"I don't hate it," Sherlock said. "I'm just not used to it. Being touched."

"You always look so startled," John said softly. "No matter how minor my touch is. Do you always react that way to people touching you?"

"John," Sherlock said, frustrated. "People don't touch me. No one touches me. Just you. Is that answer enough for you? You're the only one."

"Oh," John said quietly. "That still doesn't explain why you've locked yourself in your room and refuse to even look at me."

"I..." Sherlock hesitated. "I'm not..."

"Look, Sherlock, I hate talking about this stuff, too," John said through the door. "It's hard for me, and it makes me uncomfortable. But there are some things you just need to say, no matter how much it makes you feel like you're spilling your guts out."

"It's not about the touching," Sherlock said, just to be sure John wouldn't get it wrong.

"I know," John said. "I won't stop touching you, as long as you don't mind."

"I like it a great deal," Sherlock admitted to the darkness in the room. "More than I should."

"Okay," John said. "I won't stop. Just... will you tell me what I did wrong, Sherlock? Whatever it was, I didn't mean to hurt you, in spite of the fact that I obviously did, somehow. Please just tell me what it was."

"It's..." Sherlock said, still hesitating. "You'll just think I'm a freak."

"I would never think that, Sherlock," John said. "Please just tell me."

Sherlock wrestled with the hateful necessity of letting anyone know anything about their vulnerabilities and letting John in. They wanted to trust John, to be able to tell her what was wrong. There was always that insufferable hope in the back of their mind that John would simply accept them as they were.

"If I open the door, do you promise not to laugh?" they finally asked.

John immediately replied, "I promise."

With a deep breath and a sense of deep trepidation, Sherlock unlocked the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens the door.

To Sherlock's utter horror, as soon as John stepped through the door, they felt tears well up in their eyes again. They tried to blink them away, but a heavy sob worked its way out of their throat.

"Oh, Sherlock," John said, coming to sit next to them on the floor. "What have you done?"

She reached up, and Sherlock ducked their head and allowed John to remove the blanket that had been covering them. 

"Your hair," John said, fingers brushing over their rampant curls. "I didn't imagine that you'd cut off this much of it from the amount in the sink."

"I did most of it at the university," Sherlock said unhappily. "I just got so... angry and cut it all off."

"You know, this isn't the end of the world, you know," John said, hand running over their head. "It's fixable. We can definitely fix this."

"I tried already," Sherlock said, with a watery glare.

"Sherlock, as soon as the shops open tomorrow morning, we'll go and get you a proper haircut," John said. "Mind you, it will be shorter than what you're used to –"

And then Sherlock broke into loud sobs again, and John carefully put an arm around their shoulder. Sherlock sniffled, and rested their forehead against John's shoulder.

"That's not everything, is it?" John asked. "There's something you're not telling me. Such as why you've been avoiding me."

"It's stupid," Sherlock said.

It wasn't stupid, but Sherlock didn't expect anyone to care about what was going on in their head. Most people didn't want to know anything that was going on in Sherlock's head, and liked it even less when they started voicing them aloud.

John settled them more comfortably in her arms, and Sherlock hesitated before snuggling closer. 

"What is it, dear heart?" John said against their hair. "Just tell me."

"I... hate my hair," Sherlock said. "I've always hated it. I've wanted to cut it off for years and years now, but I didn't. My mother loves my hair. Everyone loves my hair. People like my hair more than they like the person attached to it."

"Oh," John said. "I remember now. I said that you had nice hair, didn't I"

Sherlock nodded, then hesitated. "It's not just my hair."

"What isn't?" John asked.

"It's everything," Sherlock said, for the first time struggling with how to explain. "I hate my body a lot of the time, because it feels like it doesn't belong to me. It has nothing to do with all those body positivity things I see everywhere nowadays. It's just... what I'm feeling. It's called gender dysphoria."

"I think I've heard of it," John said hesitantly. "Are you..."

"I'm trans, yes," Sherlock said quietly. "I've read a lot about it now, because I wanted to understand why I felt like this. I'm not FtM. I'm something different than that. I'm non-binary. Genderfluid seems to apply best to what I feel most of the time."

"I haven't heard of it," John said. "Tell me about it?"

John didn't try to pull away, and Sherlock relaxed a fraction. They'd seen so many disparaging comments on the internet about what people thought about being genderfluid. A lot of people seemed to think it wasn't real, that non-binary people were just making it up, to try and be special.

"Sometimes I feel male," Sherlock said. "But not all the time. Sometimes I feel female, or neutral. But when I feel male... I'm disconnected from my body, and I hate it when people assume I'm a girl, even though that's the way I've presented myself to society. I can't stand it."

"And that's why you hate your hair?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Today... I just couldn't stand it anymore. I went a bit... mad, I suppose, and just cut it off. But I just made it worse!"

Sherlock felt their eyes tearing up again and hid their face against John's shoulder.

"It's okay," John said. "Like I said, we can go and get it cut in the morning. I'll go with you. We can get it cut however you like."

"But what am I supposed to say?" Sherlock asked. "When everyone asks about it? They will ask about it, of course, because they all love my hair and how long it is... was. Everyone will want to know why I cut it all off. They'll think I'm even more of a freak than before! At least before now, everyone always forgave me for being weird because I looked like a girl. Now what will they all say?"

"Bugger that lot," John said, pulling Sherlock closer against her. "If anyone says anything about it, I'll punch them for you. How does that sound?"

Sherlock smiled against John's shoulder. "Sounds great."

Of course, it wouldn't be as simple as all that, it just couldn't be. Sherlock wasn't so much worried about the general public, but their family might not understand what Sherlock's gender identity actually meant to them. It did mean a lot to them that John was reacting well, because it meant they had a base of support to fall back on in the event that their family became unbearable to deal with.

After a while of just sitting in John's embrace, Sherlock's eyes were closing. Apparently being anxious for so long was tiring.

John said, "So is that why you were avoiding me then? Because you thought I would judge you for having a different gender identity?"

Sherlock cringed. "I didn't think you would... it's just, what if I was wrong? You're one of the only people in the world that actually likes me the way I am. And... I held it back from you, my real actual self, the one that is genderfluid. What if you were mad about it and said I lied about it?"

"I'm not like Victor Trevor," John said.

"What?" Sherlock's head shot up. "Who told you about him?"

Sherlock still avoided Victor Trevor to this day. They had met him in their chemistry lab in first year, and he had seemed like a fairly intelligent person. In the very least, he hadn't caused Sherlock any problems with their lab, which was a minor miracle considering the rest of their peers in the program. Sherlock had found him tolerable enough, and agreed to study with him after school. Little did Sherlock know, but Trevor was still a typical university student in that getting laid was one of his primary objectives. He had made a move on them the first night of studying, and Sherlock had been so upset that they'd left his flat altogether. Sherlock had stopped talking to him after that.

"He did," John said ruefully. "Told me he hoped you weren't leading me on, like you did him. And I was surprised, because he assumed I was your girlfriend."

Sherlock blushed and automatically jerked away from John. "He was just mad because he was trying to get into my pants and didn't realize I only like women."

"I gathered as much," John said wryly. "Does he always assume your female friends are your girlfriend?"

Sherlock shook their head. "John, I don't _have_ friends to mistake for love interests! You're my only friend!"

Sherlock felt a lump in their stomach, and they inched away from John. Just when they thought everything would clear up, John had to bring up this awkward topic. Of course, she didn't know that Sherlock was in love with her, but it was still horrible to have to pretend that it didn't mean anything to them at all.

"I'm just joking, Sherlock," John said, more quietly.

"Yes, ha ha, how funny," Sherlock replied bitterly. "Of course you're not my girlfriend. What a hilarious notion! Why would anyone, but especially John Watson, want to date Sherlock?"

Sherlock snapped their mouth shut, realizing that they'd said too much. They got up off the floor and went to stand by the window with their back to John. Maybe John would get the hint and go away.

"Forget I said that," they said, without looking at her. 

John got to her feet as well. "Sherlock... do you... have feelings for me?"

"It doesn't matter, John," Sherlock said. "Will you just leave already?"

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock turned around angrily and snapped, "What?"

John clenched her fist in the front of Sherlock's shirt and stood on her tip-toes. Without any warning at all, John was _kissing_ Sherlock, and Sherlock was too surprised to do much of anything in return. John was kissing Sherlock – Sherlock who was the most anti-social person on campus, who was certainly not a man in spite of their gender identity, Sherlock, who had terrible, lop-sided, rampant curls.

Before Sherlock had quite processed what was happening, John broke away and asked, "Is that... alright?"

"But... but you're..." Sherlock protested in confusion. 

Their heart was beating so fast and hard that they weren't certain it could take the strain. Sherlock swayed slightly on the spot, and John's fingers tightened in response, keeping them close. It didn't make sense to Sherlock, any of this. Wasn't John...

"Apparently bisexual," John said, with a small smile.

"Bi... bisexual?" Sherlock asked, mind racing. It wasn't a possibility they had considered, a terrible oversight on their part if that was the case. Why had they just assumed when John had never herself confirmed her heterosexuality? Saying she wasn't gay was one thing which didn't necessarily exclude Sherlock.

It was Sherlock who had excluded Sherlock, because Sherlock didn't think that anyone would be attracted to them, never mind the one person they actually had feelings for.

John continued, "You know, I still don't think I like women, per se. If you're genderfluid, however... then you're not a woman at all, are you? You're something completely different."

"That's... true," Sherlock said. "I still have... well... female-bodied bits."

"I'm sure we'll figure it out," John said firmly. "Now for the important part. Can I kiss you again?"

"I... I... y-yes?" Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Good," said John, and did.

Sherlock could barely register that it was really John that was kissing them, and it was so surprising that Sherlock wasn't entirely certain what to do about it. They hadn't done much kissing, and having Victor Trevor attempt to steal one didn't really count as far as they were concerned.

"Haven't done this much, have you?" John asked softly against their mouth.

"Um, not as such," Sherlock said tentatively.

Would John be disappointed in their inexperience? They tensed up in sudden anxiety.

"Okay," John said. "That's okay. Just relax, alright? I won't do anything you don't want. Don't forget to breathe."

John fitted their mouths together again, her hands in Sherlock's ridiculous hair. Slowly, Sherlock let themself relax into it, let John coax their mouth into the gentle push and pull of proper kissing. They shivered at the light brush of John's tongue over their lower lip and hesitantly put their hands on John's waist. Is this how it was properly done, then?

"You're so tall," John giggled against their throat. "Come here."

And then John was kissing their neck, and that was much nicer than they had been expecting. Their knees abruptly stopped working, and they nearly fell. John pinned them against the wall to stop them from falling over, her muscled shoulders straining to keep them both upright. Sherlock nearly swooned again from that feeling alone.

"Liked that, did you?" John asked with a grin.

"I – " Sherlock said, blushing bright red.

John kissed the tip of their nose and giggled. Sherlock blinked and looked down at John, who was highlighted by the citylight coming in through the window. 

"Still okay?" John asked, voice hushed.

Sherlock nodded, not trusting their voice in that moment.

John brought their head down again, and Sherlock sank into the kiss with a soft noise, hands clutching at the front of John's terrible jumper. They would have far preferred John to wear her rugby jersey. She looked very heroic in it. It was in this moment of distraction that John delved into their mouth, and Sherlock let out a startled moan as their knees buckled.

"Whoa," John said, grinning up at them. "Don't fall now."

"Too late," Sherlock said breathlessly.

"Well," John replied, voice husky. "I've got you."

John maneuvered them over to Sherlock's bed and got them both carefully situated on the edge. She didn't tip Sherlock over onto their back, as easy as that would be at the moment.

"Is this better?" John asked.

"This is so..." Sherlock said, unable to come up with a word for it in the moment. They felt remarkably light-headed, and swayed in John's arms.

"You just hang on, now," John said. "I've got you."

Sherlock, growing tired of all this talk of hanging on, toppled backwards, hands still anchored in John's jumper. They dragged John forwards until they were both sprawled on the small bed.

"I like this better," Sherlock admitted, with a slight flush.

"I do, too," John said, nudging her forehead against Sherlock's.

"Kiss me," Sherlock asked shyly, and John did.

Sherlock's tightly wound body slowly unfurled like a blossom, spreading out to welcome John into their embrace. John seemed to know exactly what to do, where to kiss them, where to touch them, in order to get them unwound. 

John's fingers found the edge of Sherlock's shirt and pulled it up their ribcage. They felt goosebumps ripple up their stomach, and John's fingers on their skin. John made an inquiring sound against their mouth, tugging at the fabric bunched up around their middle.

"Okay," Sherlock said.

John pulled the shirt over their head, and their hair fluffed up with static. John giggled and knocked them back over onto the bed to kiss them again, all over their face. Sherlock turned their face up to receive them, closing their eyes at the soft presses against their cheeks, the tip of their nose, their forehead, and the corner of their slightly parted mouth.

Sherlock had thought they'd be overwhelmed if they ever partook in this particular act, and while it was sending information bouncing around their head uncontrollably, Sherlock revelled in it. Their mind was expanding and expanding to accommodate all these new feelings.

John's fingers jolted them out of their daze as they found the edge of Sherlock's sports bra. Sherlock reached up to stop them.

"I..." Sherlock looked away, afraid of disappointing John. "I would prefer to keep this on."

Sherlock wished they could give John what she wanted. The heavy-duty sports bra was acting as a breast binder of sorts, however, and Sherlock felt a lurch of discomfort in their stomach at the thought of removing it.

"Okay," John said. "Can I still touch you?"

"O-of course!" Sherlock stuttered. They had no time to be relieved that John wasn't annoyed at Sherlock's refusal to remove their bra, because John was thumbing one of their nipples through the cotton fabric. They gasped and arched their back in pleased surprise. 

"Do you mind if I take off my kit?" John asked, hands going to the edge of her abominable jumper.

"No, go ahead," Sherlock said, eyes wide.

John's stomach was fairly muscular, which Sherlock had long suspected – but it was one thing to suspect something and then be presented with solid evidence. Sherlock goggled as John threw the jumper over the edge of Sherlock's bed. John grinned and then loomed over them, and Sherlock whined as all of John's surprisingly soft skin came into contact with their own.

"You look divine," John said. "I am going to kiss you until you can't think anymore."

"I've already got a head start on that," Sherlock said dazedly.

John leaned over and pressed a soft, gentle kiss to their mouth.

"Don't let me go," Sherlock whispered.

"I won't," John promised.

***

Sherlock woke up slowly the next morning in a surprising but welcome coccoon of warmth. They hadn't expected it, for some reason, but John had stayed the whole night. They relaxed, the sudden tension uncoiling from their spine. John had stayed.

There was one thing they did know about John, and that was that she never stayed the night with a one-night stand. And here she was with Sherlock, still asleep, one arm draped around Sherlock's waist and the other pillowing Sherlock's head. She smelled soft and somehow warm, nestled up against Sherlock's side. She was still asleep, and Sherlock was tempted to simply watch her for most of the day, just lying there, breathing.

There was, however, a pressing matter at hand.

Sherlock didn't think it was good etiquette to leave one's partner asleep, but their bladder was rather insistent on them getting up. Extracting themself from John's possessive hold on them was something of a challenge, but Sherlock didn't mind John's clinging. They rather wanted to cling back and possibly never let go.

Curse their bodily weaknesses that prevented them from simply staying here all day instead of getting up and performing tedious bodily functions.

As they were washing their hands, they suddenly caught their reflection in the mirror and stopped dead. They had been in such a state of euphoria that they had almost completely forgotten how it all came about. They reached up to tentatively poke at their still-ruined hair.

How had John looked at Sherlock last night and still been able to...

"Hey," came John's slightly scratchy voice from their right.

"Oh!" Sherlock said, startled.

John sleepily wandered into the bathroom, put her arm around Sherlock's waist, leaned up to kiss their sharp jawline, and yawned.

"Good morning," Sherlock said hesitantly.

"Hello, my lovely," John said, smiling. "Come on, I'm making us both breakfast."

Sherlock followed John around their dorm room, watching as John made scrambled eggs and toast. It almost didn't seem real to them, the fact that John was here, making them breakfast after spending the night with Sherlock. Sherlock had never actually expected that to happen. Every single time John went past them, she put a hand on their head or touched their shoulder. Sherlock startled the first few times, but they were already getting used to it.

Breakfast done, John dug into her closet and found a large, knitted hat to cover Sherlock's hair with. Sherlock briefly considered skipping the part where they had to go to the hairdressers and just wear a hat until all the hair grew back. But no, they'd started this by cutting off most of it, they might as well finish the job. They didn't generally like hats, but this was an exceptional circumstance.

"Come on," John said, taking their hand. "We've got a lot to do today."

"It's just a haircut," Sherlock protested, although it was anything but that, in their own mind.

"Just come on," John said.

The first stop was the hairdresser, and Sherlock suddenly realized that they had no idea what to ask the hairdresser for. Every other time they'd been, it had just been to trim the ends. To make their hair into an actual style was something they hadn't considered. Sherlock didn't know anything about styling hair at all. Surely it would be harder once it was short?

John handed them a magazine already flipped open to a page. Sherlock took it, and their eyes boggled. All of the people on this page were men with curly hair. Sherlock blinked in surprise. Somehow, they had still expected to get a women's haircut when they came in, but John had blown the door open on the possibilities.

"I like this one," John murmured in their ear.

Sherlock blushed.

"D-do you?" they asked, biting their lip.

The haircut did look very good on the model, who also had sharp features, like Sherlock. The model was wearing a turtleneck, and Sherlock thought to themself that while turtlenecks weren't their sort of thing, perhaps a long coat with a good collar would be nice.

"I'll get that one, then," Sherlock said.

The hairdresser took one look at Sherlock's hair and sighed, "Why do people never appreciate the difficulty of cutting curly hair?"

Sherlock just shrugged sheepishly and handed her the photo. Luckily, the woman didn't talk much, but she had deft hands. Sherlock felt more and more as if they were gaining freedom the more hair that fell to the ground sheared away. And as that feeling built, their ability to deduce started working again. Or, rather, the anxiety brought on by their gender dysphoria was pushed back enough that their observations could filter through again.

The hairdresser had two small dogs and a three-year-old, judging by the hair on her pants and the stains on the back of her knee, which she'd missed from her vantage point. John stayed with them, grinning at them in the mirror as their new cut took shape.

"Very dashing," the hairdresser said, holding up a mirror for Sherlock to see the back. "What do you think?"

"It's... it's perfect," Sherlock said, feeling oddly like they might start crying again.

John came over and grinned, reaching up to tug on one stray curl.

"You do look very handsome," she said.

Sherlock flushed, and John giggled, leaning up on her tip-toes to kiss them on the cheek. Sherlock looked at themself in the mirror a second time, admiring how their face looked so different now that they didn't have all that hair around their face. It changed the whole way their face looked, made it seem sharper, more masculine – which Sherlock supposed was the point of it.

Sherlock supposed they did look a bit strange dressed in feminine clothing, but with a masculine haircut, but then decided they didn't care. This is how they wanted to look, for once in their life. Their own reflection was mesmerizing.

"Come on, you attractive git, let's go," John said.

Sherlock preened, holding their chin up high to show off their hair, and John smiled.

Having paid for the haircut and admired it in every store window they passed, Sherlock realized that they weren't heading back to the residences, but were heading further into the bustling centre. For the first time, Sherlock didn't mind that so many people might see them, because for the first time, they felt that their outside accurately resembled how they felt.

"Where are we headed?" Sherlock asked.

"Maigret's," John said, and Sherlock frowned mightily.

"That's... a tailor's," they said. "A posh one."

"Strangely enough, I think your weird brother knew what was happening," John said. "He sent me the address to the tailor and said I might need it. I had no idea what he was talking about until last night."

The tailor was obviously high-end, but although their dimensions were obviously not what was expected, the name Holmes made the tailor switch from reticent to accommodating in moments. 

Sherlock almost couldn't believe that John was getting them measured for a bespoke shirt. This felt like a dream, because it couldn't actually be happening to them. Not only did they have a relationship with John, John knew about their gender identity and respected it, plus they were finally feeling more at ease with their own appearance. It was something they had never imagined would ever happen.

The tailor finished up and said, "You can come and pick up your order in two days."

"Must be a rush order," John said in a low voice as they exited the shop.

Sherlock nodded. Curse their older brother, apparently he was even more important than they'd first thought.

"Let's go," John said, tugging them in the direction of more shops. "We can still get you something to wear today. I just thought... you might like something nice."

"Thank you," Sherlock said softly, squeezing her hand.

"Come on, I want you to wear that jumper," John said, pointing.

"As if you could get me into _that_ monstrosity," Sherlock hissed in return.

"I should have known Sherlock Holmes would hate jumpers, whatever their gender," John laughed.

"I don't hate them," Sherlock grumbled. "You wear them, after all."

"You're sweet after all," John said. 

"I'm really not," Sherlock replied.

As much as Sherlock generally hated shopping, getting a brand new attire made it worthwhile. They found some nice shirts and trousers, and Sherlock wore a set out of one of the shops, revelling in their newly remade image. They were already thinking about what kinds of combinations they could make, and how they could meld their masculine and feminine images. Not usually one for fashion, Sherlock was afire with the possibilities before them. But... it was still missing something. They didn't know quite what it was until they saw it.

It was in a shop window, displayed to perfection, and Sherlock knew right then, that this was what they needed to complete the image they wanted to present.

"I must have it," Sherlock said.

"What?" John said, "Wait, Sherlock!"

Sherlock hurried into the shop and admired the coat in all its glory. They completely ignored the shopkeeper, leaving John to sort it out in favour of dreamily gazing at it. The coat was long, dark, and swishy – plus, it had a collar. It was everything they'd been searching for. Reverently, they lifted one from its hanger and twirled it over their shoulders, where it spun and settled around them. Yes. This was it.

"How does it look?" Sherlock asked, popping the collar.

John said, "I could jump your bones all over again in this moment, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock felt hot all over at John's words, and had to hastily hide their cheeks behind the collar for fear that everyone would know how much they wanted John to jump their bones immediately.

"I'm going to get it," Sherlock said.

As the two of them walked along the street hand-in-hand, Sherlock still couldn't shake the feeling that this was a dream.

"Pinch me, John," they said. "I'm not sure this is real."

"It's real," John said, kissing the back of their hand. "You had better believe it."

And so, Sherlock Holmes had to conclude, that dreams sometimes really did come true.

Epilogue

Ten years later...

Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective, whirled around their crime scene in delight. There were three victims already, and the fourth was about to break this case wide open. 

Sherlock turned to John in delight and said, "John, her case is missing."

John turned to Lestrade and raised an eyebrow. Lestrade shook his head and waved a hand at them.

"Just go," he said wearily. "Text me if you find anything."

As they both ran down the stairs in a tumble, Sherlock remembered to slow down to wait for John. Her limp, while it wasn't as terrible when she first returned from Afghanistan, still came and went at times. The first few times Sherlock had accidentally rushed ahead without John, they had felt terrible after remembering. John was still coming down the stairs at a steady pace, which was nonetheless slower than usual. To appease John's pride, Sherlock stopped to look back up the gap in the upward spiralling-banisters at Lestrade.

"Text!" Lestrade yelled down the stairs after them, frazzled face appearing on the third floor.

"Pink!" Sherlock yelled back, because they were certain that Lestrade hadn't even noticed that the lady's suitcase was obviously too conspicuous to hang on to for long.

John grinned at them as they went out onto the darkened street. "So what are you looking for?"

"Pink case, within a five minute radius of here. Split up, we'll find it faster."

"Oy, fr-Holmes. Don't go running off on us," Donovan said as the two of them went past her.

She had called Sherlock a freak at first – sometimes because Sherlock had a tendency to lose all sense of tact when John wasn't around, and sometimes because it was obvious by Sherlock's clothing that they didn't follow typical gender expectations. John had put a stop to that as soon as she'd returned and started going out on cases again.

Sherlock was just glad that she'd come back in one piece (mostly).

Sherlock looked back on their life and tried to remember what it had been like before they met John Watson and couldn't quite recall. It had been bad before that, but Sherlock had lasted long enough to meet John, and that's what mattered most.

They swirled their coat around their legs as they ran and grinned. Back when they'd first become a couple, Sherlock had bought a long coat and had worn it for years, until it was well worn out. John had bought them this new one for their birthday, and it still smelled new. It was a bit more posh than their last coat, that was for sure.

Sherlock was wearing a bespoke silk purple shirt and trousers, as well as bespoke brogues. They were presenting as more masculine today, but had long ago become used to their gender presentation being a strange mix of masculine, feminine, and something in between. Many people were often confused by this, but Sherlock never explained, leaving that to John, should she be so inclined to bother with an explanation.

There was a time, so long ago now, that Sherlock had never imagined anyone would accept them as they were, never mind love them for it. They looked down at their left ring finger fondly. The gold band there was polished and meticulously cared for – the state of their marriage obvious to anyone who knew to look.

If there was one thing they wished they could tell their younger self, it was how they lived – and loved – now. A fairytale ended at happily-ever-after, but Sherlock and John were still living it, from that very day way back when, and beyond it.

**Author's Note:**

> [My Tumblr](http://testosterone-tea.tumblr.com/)


End file.
